


Bifurcated: Postscript

by Squintern



Series: Bifurcated [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: But Mostly Comfort, Family Feels, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, literally i cannot stress this enough this is just intimacy and the healing powers of love, no beta we don't die, omg so much intimacy, this is almost 12k words of intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squintern/pseuds/Squintern
Summary: Nicky’s body is humming with the harmony of Joe’s, their hearts beating the steady, familiar rhythm of their entwined lives.--Or, Joe returns home.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: Bifurcated [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079777
Comments: 14
Kudos: 120





	Bifurcated: Postscript

**Author's Note:**

> I don't tell you what to do, but if you're here without having read Bifurcated, I'm gonna have to highly recommend you read that first. This picks up immediately after the events of that and is 100% indulgent fluff. This happened because I needed someone to mention Lykon, and then I accidently wrote almost 12k words.

The house in Mongolia is the most elaborate they own. It is a home, more than simply a safehouse. It sprawls over a massive expanse of land that Andy has owned since land was available to be bought and sold. Over the many centuries, they have built and added to the original structure and it is enough now to be almost called a mansion. They don’t use it often. Andy, Quynh, and Nicky and Joe, the ones who spent so much time making it their own, they consider it a luxury they could all too easily settle into and with a world in need of their help, they don’t like to dwell on that possibility. Booker has only seen it once, and for Nile this is the first time.

Nicky and Joe have the only bedroom on the East side of the house because Nicky prefers to rise with the sun and Joe indulges him in everything. Decades ago they built in a separate entrance and kitchenette, created a hideaway all their own that offered privacy without any more distance from their family. Nicky draws Joe to that entrance now. It is not entirely fair, but this clawing possessiveness isn’t surprising so soon after what’s happened.

He has not stopped touching Joe since they found him. His fingers find Joe’s pulse on his wrist and neck, pushing in to feel its steady beating alongside his own. Joe doesn’t hesitate to return the touch. His fingers skate over Nicky’s cheek bones and trace lines of his palms. They sit pressed together, the line of their bodies joining from shoulder to ankle. Through the wait for Andy’s transport, through the long flight to Mongolia, through the drive up to the house, they do not relinquish their hold on each other.

They haven’t spoken yet beyond the reverent whisper of their given names. Nicky isn’t sure he can remember any more words than he’s already said, any more than Joe’s name. The thoughts he cannot voice are there in the name and Joe knows them all, answers in kind. (Pressed into his hair, his cheek, the curve of his neck,  _ Nicolò, Nicolò, Nicolò _ and that is the power he craved when he asked Quynh not to say it. That power to make him whole again.) As they climb the stairs to their rooms, they remain in silence.

Nicky locks the door to their bedroom, locks the world out because there’s only them right now. He turns back when Joe drifts away from him, already hurting sharply from the loss even though he’s barely feet away. Joe is staring at his scimitar where it’s propped next to the bed. Nicky feels guilty suddenly for not having cleaned it. He can see the flakes of blood around the hilt even from here. He crosses to Joe, desperate for his touch again, and wraps both arms around his waist. Joe reaches back to tangle a hand in Nicky’s hair and sighs.

“I knew you would have it,” he says quietly. Nicky tightens his hold.

“Quynh took it,” he says. He hates to admit that he didn’t even think of it.

“She’s always known us well,” Joe says. He knows Nicky was beyond thought and forgives him. Nicky hides his face in Joe’s neck.

After a moment Joe turns in his arms. He touches Nicky’s face because he can, then drops his hands to his belt. His fingers are sure and steady as he disarms Nicky. He turns to place Nicky’s sword with his own, their tips crossing in the floor. And he seems to look at Nicky for the first time, eyes roving over his frame. His fingers touch at Nicky’s shoulders and chest and rest against his hips again.

“Where is your rifle?” he asks.

“I left it,” Nicky says. “I needed-” Joe nods and kisses him. Nicky drags him close as their lips meet. In the privacy of their room he falls into the familiar feeling.

“I’ll get you a new one,” Joe promises when they part. Nicky doesn’t care right now, but Joe knows him better than he knows himself and he knows Nicky will care later. Nicky pulls him into another kiss.

They strip slowly, too caught up in each other to get more than one or two steps without coming together again. They leave a trail of clothes to their bathroom and by the time they reach the shower they’re finally skin to skin. Nicky reaches back blindly to turn on the water. As it heats up he manages to put space enough between them to look at Joe fully.

His skin is smooth, unblemished, not a single scar beneath the crusted blood. Nicky runs his fingers down Joe’s chest, marveling more than ever at the way his skin feels. It’s always something of a revelation every time they die and come back without a single shred of physical toll, but now it’s so much more. Even Andy has scars now, but there is nothing to suggest the ordeal Joe suffered, nothing to prove he left and returned. Nicky isn’t sure if he wants that proof or not.

Joe lets him look as long as he needs. He sways closer more than once, curling his tongue at the hinge of Nicky’s jaw and the dip of his collarbone and the hollow beneath his chin, but he keeps enough room for Nicky to look. His own hands are clamped tightly on Nicky’s hips, thumbs stroking along the bone with hypnotic constancy. Eventually, Nicky tilts back up to catch Joe’s eye and from there it’s barely a step to get them both under the steaming spray of the shower and pressed together once more.

They spend less time cleaning than simply getting their hands on each other. Soap is a flimsy excuse for Joe to scratch his nails down Nicky’s chest and back. Shampoo is only half of why Nicky keeps his fingers buried in Joe’s hair. A heat steals down Nicky’s spine, natural and welcome as it always is with Joe under his hands. Joe shivers through his own spark of desire and his hand curls briefly around Nicky’s cock. That single touch has Nicky’s knees going weak like it’s the first time all over again. For a moment he had never thought he could have this again and now that he does it’s nearly overwhelming.

They’re as clean as they’re going to get at this point, so Joe leads them out. They have the presence of mind to shut off the water, but they don’t bother with drying off. They tumble on to their bed. The sheets are clean and fresh, someone has prepared their room. Nicky makes a mental note to thank their family, all of them, when he is ready to go back to the world. For now, he lets Joe gentle him to the center of the bed and stretch out over him. Their bodies slot together and one or both of them moans softly. Something drastically wrong in the universe rights itself.

“What do you want?” Joe asks into the scant space between them. And Nicky pauses. He does not know what he wants. He wants to feel Joe all around him, inside him, under him, over him. He wants proof of his life however he can get it. He wants, he wants, he  _ wants _ . Joe waits, pressing his lips to Nicky’s skin mindlessly.

“Tell me,” Nicky says before he registers the words himself. And his thoughts coalesce. He wants Joe in his bed, he wants his skin under his hands, and he wants to know what happened. He has two, so he asks for the third. “Tell me.”

“Nicolò,” Joe murmurs. “Now?” He is tense and Nicky smooths his hands over his shoulders to soothe him. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Please,” he begs.

“What good will it do?” Joe asks. “Will it change anything?”

“Tell me,” Nicky insists because he can’t explain why he needs to know, just that he does. Joe places a hand over Nicky’s heart and looks into his eyes.

“You will tell me something after,” he says and Nicky nods. He’ll tell Joe anything, promise anything, to hear this right now. Joe presses their mouths together and Nicky clutches at him, already wanting to draw him back into their silence, but they both relent because this will not leave Nicky’s head until he’s satisfied.

And so Joe tells him. Tells him about waking up, alone and stiff from rigor mortis. Tells him about the lengths he went to, to remain rational when all he wanted to do was walk toward the call of his heart. Tells him about being found, being brought so far off course. (And Nicky can almost feel how he had wanted to take on this army just because they were  _ in his way _ and how he had to admit he could not, had to let them go to return to the compound not knowing they would face a vicious death at Nicky’s hands later.) Tells him about turning around, about putting a knife to the men who tried to keep them apart so he could make his way back across the desert to that magnet of Nicky’s pulse. Tells him about the blistering heat and the ache in his bones and the fear, the fear he refused to acknowledge and dwell on, the fear that he had no chances left, that he was given this last gasp of life to say goodbye before it was permanent. Nicky shudders and presses closer, however impossible it is.

“This is not your last chance,” he says fiercely, as if the conviction in his voice is enough to keep Joe here. It very well may be.

“I was gone,” Joe reminds him. Nicky’s nails nearly break the skin of Joe’s back and he doesn’t flinch.

“You will not leave me,” Nicky says, confident and beseeching in equal measure. Joe gets his mouth back on Nicky’s pulse, and it flutters beneath his tongue.

“Never,” he says. “Never again.”

“Then don’t speak as if you will,” Nicky says, pushing him back. He holds Joe’s face and looks him in the eye. “We go together or not at all.”

“Together,” Joe agrees, unwavering. Nicky kisses him again.

They ebb and flow for an indeterminate length of time, waves of sensation cresting but never breaking. Arousal is barely secondary to the feel of their bodies together again and neither pushes for anything more. Nicky takes his fill of Joe’s taste then moves down and away to drink in the scent of his skin. A shuddering half-moan falls from his lips as Joe changes position ever so slightly. Joe catches the rest of his exhale on his tongue.

“Your turn,” he says a long time later when they finally have to breathe. Nicky pushes his hands through Joe’s hair and nods. “The night we stopped,” Joe says and Nicky’s brow furrows in confusion.

“The night we stopped killing each other,” Joe elaborates.

“Yes, I know,” Nicky says, because what other night would he be talking about. He just doesn’t know why Joe brings it up now.

“You woke up and you reached for your sword to strike me down again. What stopped you?” Joe asks. Nicky freezes. He hadn’t realized they were still moving until he stopped. Joe freezes too and they hang in the balance.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Joe asks, emotion swirling in his voice. Hurt, confusion, perhaps even betrayal. Nicky shakes his head quickly and he has to kiss him.

“I’m surprised, is all,” he says. He kisses Joe again and their bodies melt together once more. “You never asked before. Have you always wondered?”

“Always,” Joe breathes. And Nicky knows that this is just as vitally important to him now as Nicky’s request was.

“You could have asked,” Nicky says. Joe is waiting for his answer but Nicky needs him to know this was never a secret.

“I’m asking now,” Joe points out. There’s a touch of humor somewhere in there, but neither has the capacity for amusement at the moment.

“The look on your face,” Nicky tells him. “You didn’t look at me like you had before, like I was your enemy, like you wanted to see me dead. You looked scared.” Nicky rolls them, tucking Joe beneath his own body.

“Your eyes,” he says, cupping Joe’s face and brushing his thumbs under those eyes he’s spent centuries memorizing, “they were full of…” He strokes Joe’s skin again, searching for the words.

“Despair,” he says, “and shame, like you were in the wrong, not I. And hope.” And that’s the important one, the one that made Nicky realize that their endless brawl was no way to go on, the one that made him see, for the first time, the  _ man _ at the end of his blade. Joe exhales shakily and reaches up to catch one of Nicky’s hands. He presses a kiss to the palm, reflexively runs his tongue along the lines of it.

“I hoped you would not leave me,” Joe says into Nicky’s palm, his lips parting against the skin as he speaks. “I couldn’t fathom a world like that, a  _ life _ like that, on my own. I was ashamed to have killed you, and killed you again, and again, and so many times after. I was despairing that I had been the winner and my eternal life was a punishment.”

“I’m here,” Nicky says, in Arabic, in Italian, then in the ancient dialect they built together from each other’s mother tongue. “I won’t leave you, either.” He touches their foreheads together and closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Joe says and Nicky pulls back to look at him.

“For what?” he asks, incredulous. Joe smooths his fingers over Nicky’s brow and leans in to kiss him, but Nicky pushes him away for the first time. “Yusuf,  _ for what _ ?” Because he cannot be apologizing for what happened. Nicky was the one who left him. Nicky was the one who didn’t insist they take his body. Nicky was the reason they were separated. Joe’s hands soothe him, easing his distress.

“I wanted to tell you then,” Joe explains, pulling Nicky back in. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Nicky says against his mouth, vehement and impassioned. “Do not apologize to me.” Joe huffs what might be a laugh, kisses him again and again and again.

“I knew you would say that,” he says. Nicky thinks he smiles, but then their lips are catching and sticking and it’s hard to tell.

Joe rolls them back over, caging Nicky in and settling over him, warm and heavy the way his body is supposed to feel. He runs his hands down Nicky’s sides and curls a hand around one thigh, gentling it up and over his hip. The arousal simmering in the background surges forward and Nicky is breathless suddenly with the  _ want _ of it all. He still doesn’t know how he wants, but he needs Joe near. He needs his mouth on his own, on his neck, his collarbones, skating across his cheek to breathe adorations in his ear. Joe grinds down helplessly like he doesn’t know either and maybe this is enough for now. Neither can even think to do anything else. Nicky hooks his leg higher, digs his fingers into Joe’s back and scalp where he grasps at him. Joe’s fingers leave bruises on his thigh that disappear and bloom over and over. His free hand finds purchase in Nicky’s hair. They are skin to skin at every point, undivided, and nothing could drag them apart now.

It is hours later when they are finally still. Nicky’s body is humming with the harmony of Joe’s, their hearts beating the steady, familiar rhythm of their entwined lives. He settles. Two, nearly three, days and he finally settles. Joe is a protective curve at his back, breathing across his neck, warm and full of life. Nicky presses back deeper into his hold and Joe makes a small contented sound. Nicky smiles.

* * *

Joe’s not sure what time he finally wakes. Nicky is breathing evenly in his arms, but Joe knows when he’s awake and when he’s asleep. He presses his lips to Nicky’s spine and hears the hum of contentment. Nicky rolls on to his back and the smile he wears is Joe’s favorite. It is small, slow to grow on his face, brimming over with warmth. Joe has spent centuries learning to coax that smile up, curled together like they are now, in the late evenings after syrup-slow days filled with actions instead of words. It is a blessing each and every time he’s graced by it and he worships the sight now.

“I love you,” he says and it never feels like enough but most especially now it doesn’t even touch what he feels for this man. So he repeats it in every language he knows, in some he barely remembers, and in some he’s forgotten entirely. Nicky’s eyes are blue and Joe has never seen a color he loves more. He tilts his chin up and Joe kisses his smile reverently.

“I love you,” Nicky says when they part. Joe’s breath catches the way it always does when he hears those words. Nicky pushes him down to his back and hovers over him to repeat it, as many times as Joe had. He kisses him again, then trails his mouth down over Joe’s chin and neck, down the center of his chest and Joe is grasping at his hair as Nicky calls up that familiar heat under his skin.

Nicky is in no mood to tease which suits Joe just fine. He is reverent in his own motions, taking his every year of study of Joe’s body to heart as he draws him over the edge. Joe is helpless to resist. He drags Nicky back up when he’s barely finished and licks the taste of himself from Nicky’s tongue. Nicky’s hips hitch down into him, and Joe switches their positions to return the favor. It feels like a lifetime since he had the taste and feel of Nicky in his mouth. It’s as easy for him as it was for Nicky to bring him up and carry him through. Nicky lets him stay there for a few minutes to suck marks into the thin skin over his hip bones. When it’s been long enough since they kissed Joe comes back on his own.

Nicky wraps his arms around Joe’s shoulders and presses his face into his neck. They breathe in rhythm for some time before Joe rolls back to Nicky’s side. Between blinks he falls asleep again, sated and happy and wrapped around Nicky.

He wakes again to moonlight streaming through their windows. Nicky is out of his arms and he jolts up, fear coursing through him. He’s alone again and he knows where he is but he can’t stop the sudden pounding of his heart. He’s  _ alone _ . He kicks back the covers and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He’s full of adrenaline and he needs,  _ needs _ , to see Nicky. He hasn’t even stood fully when the door to their room opens again and Nicky steps in.

Nicky’s face is stricken. He rushes to Joe, placing a tray (food, Joe realizes, and water) on the nightstand. Joe pushes his way into Nicky’s arms as Nicky gathers him close. They wrestle across the sheets, trying to get closer,  _ closer _ . Nicky’s hands press in along his spine and Joe buries his face where Nicky’s neck meets his shoulders. The adrenaline still runs through his veins with nowhere to go and he clutches at Nicky in a panic. Distantly he hears Nicky pleading with him.

“Breathe, Yusuf, breathe,” he says, calling to Joe in his native tongue. “Breathe, my love, please.” And Joe is nearly dizzy. His breathing is ragged as he tries to clog his senses with Nicky’s presence but doesn’t let it out like his lungs will collapse without Nicky filling them.

Nicky gets a hand between them, pressing it to Joe’s heart. Joe is shaking, trying to follow the long, deep breaths Nicky is giving, but he was without Nicky. He was alone without Nicky. The bruises along Nicky’s shoulders fade as easily as the ones on his thighs had and Joe hangs on. Nicky rolls them, pressing Joe into the bed with the entire weight of his body, makes himself heavy until Joe is breathless from the pressure on his chest instead of the unquiet in his head.

“I’m here,” Nicky says, “I’m here, you’re not alone. You’re with me.” And it should be enough, and Joe almost feels guilty at the thought, it  _ should  _ be enough but it’s not. Like a switch has been flicked, their safe bubble of  _ NickyandJoe _ has been burst and suddenly Joe needs to see his family more than anything else.

“I need,” he says, struggling under Nicky. “I need to see them.”

“They are all asleep,” Nicky says, but he rolls off Joe and lets him get up. Joe grabs a pair of pants from their dresser and throws another pair to Nicky.

“I just,” he says as Nicky pulls them on, “I just need to see.” Nicky nods, understanding beneath his worry and his own fear of having Joe out of sight for even a moment. Nicky’s hand settles on his back as they leave their room.

The walk to the other side of the house seems much longer than Joe remembers. The adrenaline is wearing off but the fear still coats his throat, bitter and coppery under his tongue. He’d thought he had a better handle on himself. He’d spent so much of his time in the last day focusing on Nicky, being there for Nicky who had to see him dead and unwaking, and he didn’t realize what still lurked beneath the surface. He doesn’t want to think about it now, even if ignoring it and locking it back away in a little box won’t do anything but let it fester. He tries to gather himself, reaches out to soothe Nicky, but Nicky catches his hand and kisses the back before he can. His eyes are gentle, giving back every ounce of care Joe had concentrated on him. Joe breathes out slowly and Nicky draws him closer.

Andy and Quynh’s room is the first they come to. Andy always chose to sleep closest to the most obvious entries or exits, always placed herself between the world and her family. (She campaigned hard against Nicky and Joe’s separate entrance, but eventually agreed that anyone foolish enough to go for Joe and Nicky first wouldn’t be worth her time.) With all the quiet patience of a sniper, Nicky turns the handle of their door so slowly it’s nearly silent and pushes it open enough for Joe to peer inside. It’s a testament to how accustomed Andy is to their presence that she doesn’t wake at the slight breeze from the opening door. Joe watches them both for a long while, the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests. They sleep on separate sides of the bed, opposite the way he and Nicky press close the whole night, but the sheets ripple in time as they breathe together. Joe nods after some time and Nicky closes the door as carefully as he’d opened it.

Nile’s room is sandwiched between Booker’s and Andy and Quynh’s. It used to be Booker’s, with the room on the other side meant for Joe and Nicky before they took up residence on the other end of the house. Booker moved one room down so that Nile would be in the most defensible position. Nile is a heavier sleeper than Andy and Nicky is a little quicker with her door. They don’t have to bother with Booker’s room. Booker is sitting in a chair beside Nile’s bed, slumped over uncomfortably to lie halfway on her mattress. Nile is curved toward him, her back to the door, trusting that Booker would see a threat before it came. Booker stirs at the door opening and sits up. He blinks blearily at Joe and Nicky, then nods slightly. He yawns and settles into a more comfortable position, falling back to sleep in seconds. Joe wonders if he’ll even remember this in the morning. Nicky closes the door again and turns to Joe.

“Back to bed?” Nicky asks and Joe nods. His heart is calm in his chest and the warmth of Nicky’s skin settles his fear again.

“I am sorry I left you,” Nicky says, when they’re safely back into their room, the bubble reforming now that the world is locked out. Joe shakes his head.

“I didn’t realize how bad it was,” he admits. Nicky tucks a hand into his hair and tilts their foreheads together.

“We’ve been apart before,” he says. He’s reminding himself as much as he’s reminding Joe, but the words are empty because it was never like  _ this _ .

“We’ll be okay,” Joe says. Nicky nods. And it’s true even if neither of them believe it right now. 

Joe moves to press his lips to Nicky’s cheek, but Nicky turns his head to catch his mouth like he can’t give up the chance of kissing Joe even once. Joe surges into it and Nicky tugs him back down into the sheets. They manage to kick off their pants and the swell of need turns sweet and molten.

Nicky arches up into Joe; it’s his turn to ask, “What do you want?” Joe has an answer more readily than Nicky did.

“Like this,” he murmurs.

They make love until the moon sets, insatiable for what they almost lost. Joe feels alive, more alive than he’s ever felt, drunk on Nicky’s scent and taste and voice, pulling in every gasping breath Nicky lets out. Nicky whispers promises into the safety of their room and clutches him closer, closer,  _ closer _ . In the morning, they will see their family properly, but for now they are closed in again, their own world undisturbed.

They have barely slept a few hours when the sun rises and Nicky gets up like he always does. For once, Joe is with him. He feels more rested than he has in a long time, buoyed up by the thrumming of Nicky’s presence finally back at his side. They shower properly and Joe remembers the glories of toothpaste and mouthwash. He remarks how much Nicky must love him if he didn’t complain even once and Nicky reminds him that his own hygiene hadn’t been much better. Nicky watches him carefully, all the same vigilance against a threat distilled down to parsing Joe’s emotions, but he lets Joe cover his own neediness with caring and humor. Joe purposefully hands Nicky his own shirt to wear, as much as any of their things belong to one alone, and lets Nicky slide a palm up under the back of his as they leave the room. Joe knows it will be a long time before he trusts what he feels.

It’s still early and Joe doesn’t really expect the others to be up. Nicky and Andy are the only morning people when there’s nowhere to be. Even Nile shook off her military schedule in the first few decades. He’s surprised, then, to hear voices in the kitchen. Andy and Quynh, speaking quietly. He and Nicky both stop before they’re in view.

“I just can’t help but think,” Andy is saying and the last time Joe heard that mourning in her voice was when she went to tell Booker about his exile.

“I know,” Quynh says. Her voice is rational, but full of grief. “But we would have known.”

“Would we?” Andy asks. “We buried him, Quynh. What if that— what if it  _ stopped _ it somehow? What if there was something he needed to wake him up? We should have waited.”

“No,” Quynh says. There’s no conviction in her voice. “No, Joe woke up on his own. What could have possibly caused his return that Lykon did not have? And we did wait, Andy. We waited a day. Joe came back in that time.”

“Well we should have waited longer,” Andy says, angry. There is a rustle of fabric and one of them lets out a shaky breath.

“We did not abandon him,” Quynh says. “It was his time.” Her voice is choked, thick with tears. Joe hesitates, but Nicky is already stepping forward.

It’s so rare to see Andy in pain, but they both know the sight all too well. She doesn’t try to hide her face when they come in. They saw her at her worst after Quynh was lost. Quynh is wrapped around her, her own face stained with tears. Joe feels their hurt so acutely it might be his own. Lykon was barely older than he is now, but he has been given a privilege Lykon was not. He’s come back from the darkness. It’s not his fault, but he feels guilty all the same. Andy reads it on his face as easily as if he’d spoken the words and she opens her arms. Joe curls one arm around her waist and one around Quynh and buries his face in Andy’s hair. He hears Nicky move a chair aside and when he looks up, Nicky has knelt next to Andy’s chair and placed a hand on her knee. One of Andy’s hands pushes into Nicky’s hair and she shudders out a sigh.

“Welcome home,” she says and Joe lets out a sob. The missing pieces drop into place and he feels whole again. Quynh turns her head to kiss his temple and Joe transfers that same kiss to Andy’s hair. His back protests the longer he stands there, bent to keep them close, but he won’t be moved right now. Eventually Andy tires of it, though, and gently pushes them all away.

Nicky stays knelt at her side, his head bowed, even as Quynh and Joe step back. Andy’s face is soft and she cups his chin, brings his head up. Nicky meets her eyes, and Joe can see the question there. He didn’t ask what it was like for Nicky, but now he needs to know. He needs to know what he could possibly need forgiveness for. Whatever it is Andy grants it, a gentle smile and a kiss to his brow, and Nicky relaxes. He stands slowly and Andy takes his hand. Nicky covers it with his other and smiles at her, forgiveness granted in turn for another apology Joe doesn’t understand. Nicky steps away from her and comes back around to Joe, his hand curving back up under Joe’s shirt.

“Later,” he murmurs. Joe nods.

Nicky hesitates as he turns to the stove and Joe is plastered to his back in the space of a single breath. He won’t be able to keep a hand on Joe’s skin while he cooks, but Nicky always makes breakfast. Joe takes his free hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the palm. Then he moves past Nicky to find food, Nicky’s fingers trailing from his sternum to his spine as he follows. Nicky prepares coffee one-handed while Joe begins making omelets. The smell of food is usually enough to get Nile out of bed and the smell of coffee will usually herald in Booker. It’s still early for both of them, but that same urgency from the night before is back with a vengeance and Joe  _ needs _ to see everyone in his family.

Andy and Quynh watch them from the table, tracking Joe’s movements (and, by extension, Nicky’s because they’re not even an arms-length away from each other) like he might disappear. He can’t imagine what Andy must’ve gone through, thinking she’d lost another soldier, another member of her family who was so much younger than she was. Joe can still remember that bone-deep dread he’d carried until Andy suddenly started healing (reset? Just like him?) again. He had felt like he was grieving before he had any need to, and this time Andy did need to grieve. Because he  _ was _ gone. He shudders and Nicky is there, sliding the spatula from his hand to deftly flip the omelet just before it burns. He kisses Joe’s temple and smooths his hand down his spine. Joe tucks his index finger into the pocket of Nicky’s jeans and doesn’t even let him get half an arm’s length away.

Nile wanders in as the second omelet is finishing. Andy and Quynh are already sharing the first, eating off the same plate and complaining about burning their tongues because it’s still piping hot. Joe turns when he hears her footsteps and he’s already halfway across the kitchen when she steps through the doorway. She gasps and barrels into him. She’s so damn strong for someone so small and Joe swears his ribs creak. Or that might be hers because he’s hugging her back just as tightly. There are tears soaking into the collar of his shirt. They don’t let go for a long time and when Nile finally pulls back to look at him, her eyes are shining and she’s grinning so widely it must hurt.

“You’re okay,” she says and okay is a relative term, but Joe won’t burden her with that.

“I’m okay,” he promises. Her smile grows even wider if it’s possible.

“You’re alive,” she says.

“I’m alive,” he repeats. She drags him back into a hug. Behind him, Joe hears Nicky plate up the second omelet and place it on the table. The plate clatters just this side of too loudly and Nile might not have picked up on it, but he knows a signal when he hears one. Joe pushes her back gently and directs her to the table.

“Eat,” he instructs. She goes willingly and burns her tongue just the same as Andy and Quynh, though she complains far less.

Nicky’s face is a dreadful tangle of need and guilt and Joe wants desperately to remind him that he feels the same need and he wants Nicky’s hands on him as much as Nicky needs to be touching his unmarked skin. But Nicky would never stand to have Nile thinking she was in any way less important, even though Joe is sure she would understand. She watches them now, out of the corner of her eye, as Joe goes back to the stove and takes the spatula from Nicky so Nicky can push his hand back under Joe’s shirt and assure himself it’s not a dream. Nile averts her gaze, focusing on her omelet, only looking up to smile at Nicky when he sets a mug of coffee in front of her too. She’s so very clever.

Booker stumbles in with a hand already outstretched for coffee mere minutes later. Like Nile, Joe meets him halfway, grabbing him up in a hug before he can even think to resist. To his credit, he doesn’t. He pivots as easy as anything into Joe’s body and holds him, far shorter than Nile did, but Booker never really got back to the point of physical affection after everything. It’s alright and Joe lets him go when Booker starts getting antsy. Booker catches his eye before he turns and nods like he had in the night; he knows they came to check and remembers whatever he saw in their stance and he won’t tell the others if Joe doesn’t want him to. Joe nods back in thanks and acknowledgement and neither say a word. Booker turns to Nicky, who’s holding out coffee for him, and Joe is surprised when Booker clasps the back of his neck. There’s a triumphant look in his eye and Nicky looks soft and happy and a little victorious himself. It’s only for a moment, then Booker sits next to Nile and tries to steal some of her breakfast and receives a sharp jab of her fork for his trouble. Joe looks at Nicky again questioningly.

“Later,” Nicky repeats.

_ How much later _ he wants to ask, but he knows Nicky isn’t withholding this maliciously. Some things are best left to closed doors and shuttered windows and Joe can only imagine what Nicky went through. Like he’s agreeing, Nicky splays his hand over Joe’s stomach under his shirt. Joe turns back to the stove and reaches for the spatula without much thought. The gesture is clumsy, distracted as he is, and the side of his hand skates along the outside of the hot pan. He hisses and pulls back and suddenly all the air seems to have been sucked from the room. Nicky grabs his hand in both of his own, shoulders tense as he watches.

The skin knits and heals the way it’s supposed to and none of the others breathe out until Nicky does. His shoulders drop and slowly the sounds of their shared meal fill the kitchen again. But the look in Nicky’s eyes is still slightly wild when he meets Joe’s. Joe shifts enough to properly look at the stove and turn it off before he pulls Nicky from the kitchen.

“How long will they be like this?” Nile asks as Joe leads them back down the hall. Her voice isn’t accusatory, or judging, or even all that curious. She sounds deeply worried.

“A long time, I imagine,” Booker replies quietly.

* * *

Nicky hates this feeling. He’s desperate to have his hands on Joe, to prove to himself that he’s here and he’s whole and he’s breathing, all the time. He wants the comfort of his family, the assurance and gratefulness Booker gave in the kitchen and the gentle forgiveness Andy granted him, but he wants Joe alone and to himself. He’s guilty for taking Joe away from them when Nile and Booker and Quynh and Andy all deserve their time with him, and he deserves time with them. He doesn’t want to make their family uncomfortable, and he  _ saw _ Nile eying them before, because he’s not the one to ever reach out and touch. He hates that he is shaking apart when Joe needs him just as much and he can’t even keep it together to comfort him to the same degree. He doesn’t want Joe to indulge this stupid desperation, but he does. He needs Joe to respond, to take him away from the excess noise because otherwise he might fly out of his skin. It’s a horrible tangle of complicated emotions and he just wants to go back to the night before when they were pretending no one else existed and the world only extended as far as the four walls of their bedroom.

He lets Joe lead them back to the East side of the house and up to their room. Joe guides him to sit on the bed and kneels between his legs. He takes both of Nicky’s hands.

“Tell me what you need,” he says. Nicky shakes his head, he can’t even articulate it himself. Joe can see the war going on in his head though and he presses his lips to one of Nicky’s palms then brings it to his own face.

“Then tell me something else,” Joe murmurs and every muscle in Nicky’s body tenses because he knows what Joe is going to ask next.

“Later,” he tries, but his voice is strangled and later may very well mean never, but he can’t just keep this to himself either.

Joe stands slowly and pushes his hands through Nicky’s hair. He sits next to him on the bed, cupping his chin to turn Nicky’s face to him. He presses reverent lips to the hinge of Nicky’s jaw, the bridge of his nose, the slope of his shoulder. Nicky relaxes a little.

“I want you to tell me,” Joe murmurs. (And Nicky knows him so well,  _ so well _ , knows that Joe  _ needs _ Nicky to tell him just like Nicky had needed it from Joe, but he won’t push him, not when he’s in this state, and Nicky loves him  _ so fucking much _ .) “But it can be later,” he finishes, a confirmation to the thoughts playing out in Nicky’s head. Nicky nods.

Joe smiles at him, soft and gentle. He lets Nicky go and Nicky reaches out to get a hand under his shirt again. Joe clasps his wrist, pushing Nicky’s palm against his own side, silent assurance that Nicky can have him here under his hands as long as he wants. Nicky breathes out. He’s off-kilter still, wading his way through the depths of his own emotions. All he knows is that Joe is at his side and he loves him. He’s not sure right now how to feel about that.

Moving slowly so as not to dislodge him, Joe reaches around Nicky to take the hilt of his sword. He places his own scimitar across Nicky’s lap and takes up Nicky’s sword in his own hands. He removes Nicky’s hand from his skin, kissing each fingertip in apology and pressing his lips to the pulse point just for himself. Nicky lets him go when he stands even though a sharp dart of pain and fear burrows in under his ribcage. Joe slips out of their room and Nicky counts the dust motes floating in a shaft of sunlight until he comes back.

Joe returns without Nicky’s sword and offers a hand to him. Nicky takes it and lets Joe guide him out of their room where the air feels heavier to breathe but only because the world is filling back in. But they can’t really do this properly sitting on their bed and their family knows to give them time. They still can pretend it’s only them.

Their supplies to clean and sharpen their swords are laid out on the sturdy table they had built for this specific purpose. On one end is Nicky’s sword, already out of its scabbard, and Joe guides him to the other end. They don’t speak as they work. Nicky pours himself into the ritual, every bit of love and care filling him transferred to the sword Joe entrusts to his hands time and time again. The ring of his own blade on the whetstone is familiar and comforting. One by one, Nicky’s feelings detangle and order themselves. When he’s finished he can finally think again.

He is afraid, still, that Joe will slip through his fingers again, that this  _ is _ a warning sign. He is relieved that they found him and got him out of there, that he’s safe and whole and  _ still healing _ . He is guilty for leaving Joe and now for depriving his family of their own time with him. He is grateful for the endless well of patience and understanding in the man who claims  _ Nicky _ possesses the deepest capacity for kindness. But he is also still in shock and it’s driving him to this clinging desperation to keep Joe locked away and safe in his arms. He slides Joe’s scimitar back into its scabbard and watches Joe finish with his own sword.

“It’s still early, yet,” Joe says, not looking up from his task.

“They missed you, too,” Nicky replies to the unspoken question. Joe pauses, then meets his eyes.

“We can take our time,” he says. And for all the urgent need to see the others he had last night, Joe holds his gaze and silently reminds him how he needs this (needs  _ them _ ) just as much as Nicky does. Nicky doesn’t say anything else, and Joe returns to his blade. They wait until he’s finished and slid it away before speaking again.

“I don’t want to keep you here forever,” Nicky says.

“What if I want to stay?” Joe asks.

“You didn’t last night,” Nicky says, a haunting echo of fear in his voice that just sounds bitter.

“Don’t do this,” Joe says. “Whatever fight you’re itching for, don’t.”

“I’m not,” Nicky says, but a part of him is. His thoughts are in order but it doesn’t make him want to fight them all any less.

“I’m here for myself,” Joe says. “I want to stay, always. Let me.”

“You wanted to see them,” Nicky says because it’s hard to tamp down that warring instinct once it’s reared its head.

“And I did,” Joe says. “Nicolò.” It works as the trigger it always is. Joe calls him out of the darkness and Nicky follows. The fight bleeds out before it fully manifests.

“Let's go back to bed,” Nicky says. Joe takes the lead, pointedly.

They undress again, but without intent. The expanse of Joe’s skin warms Nicky and they lay back down. They switch places so Nicky can spread himself along Joe’s back and have his hands on every part of him that hadn’t healed for such a long time. Nicky’s back is to the door and any other time he’d be tensed for an imagined attack, but he knows he is safe here. And another feeling slots itself into place. He is comforted by his family, close by but giving them space, and the knowledge that there is no threat as long as they’re standing guard.

* * *

In the afternoon they find Nile and Booker again in the back garden. Their lunch plates are scattered over the low table, meal long since finished. Booker is sitting toward the back of a lounger, his legs folded, with Nile’s head in his lap as she stretches across the rest. He’s reading from Verne and Nile’s got her eyes closed, but her face is not relaxed. Joe and Nicky are close enough to hear when she asks.

“Will that happen to all of us?” She pushes up on her elbows and opens her eyes to look at Booker. Booker puts a marker in his page and sets the book aside.

“I don’t know,” he says. And he so desperately wants to give her answers, Joe can hear it in his voice.

“Why Joe?” Nile continues. “Why  _ not _ Lykon?” She twists to pull her body upright, facing Booker. Her eyes flicker over his shoulder to Nicky and Joe.

“What if this was just a warning?” she asks, of all of them. Joe goes cold and Nicky’s hand curls against his side, fingers digging in slightly. Joe supposes he shouldn’t have assumed he was the only one who would’ve considered that possibility.

“I don’t know,” Booker has to say again, helplessly.

“He is healing again,” Nicky offers. They’re hovering over the pair now.

“So what?” Nile says, blunt in a way only Nicky could’ve taught her. “Healing from a burn is different from being pumped full of bullets.” Booker puts a hand on her shoulder but Nile knocks it away.

“Well what if it is?!” she demands. “I’m not going to just go off Nicky’s word on this one! I know  _ he _ doesn’t want to think about it! The rest of us should. Do we have to fucking go through this again?” Nicky is still as a statue beside him and Joe grasps for something to say.

“And what if it happens to us?” she continues, properly angry now. “So everyone has to have, what, a— a fucking soulmate now to stay alive? Andy and Quynh get each other and Joe and Nicky get each other and you and I, we just get to fucking die like Lykon because we’re alone? How is that fair?!” Nile is breathing hard and suddenly she slumps like a puppet with its strings cut.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispers. Booker makes a low sympathetic sound and gathers her into his arms as she begins to sob. Joe only hesitates a moment before he steps away from Nicky and comes around to the lounger next to theirs. He drags it closer. It must pain Booker, as much as it must pain Nicky to step back from Joe right now, but he gently maneuvers Nile into Joe’s waiting arms. She grasps handfuls of his shirt and sobs into his neck.

Joe gently cups her face, raises it to look her in the eyes. “Do you really think you have no tether?” he asks. “If you’re right, do you really think you’ll just fade away, that there is no one else to hold you here? Do you really think the match to your soul can only be borne of romantic love?” Booker’s gaze is soft and he looks away, out across their tangled garden. Nile grasps Joe’s wrist, her tears slowing.

“You are not unmoored, Nile. If this happens to you, if something of this has to do with our ties to life, you won’t go anymore than Andy did, anymore than I did.” He sweeps away some of her tears and kisses her forehead. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily.” It coaxes the small laugh from her that he was hoping for. Booker smiles, nodding his thanks at Joe because he’s never been good with words and he’ll take whatever help he can get when it comes to caring for Nile. Nile is like little sister to Joe and Nicky, a young mentee to Quynh and Andy, but a daughter to Booker. And it takes a village and all that.

Nile sighs out slowly and tucks her face back into Joe’s neck. Nicky makes his way over to the lounger on Booker’s other side. His movements are slow and economical, he’s resisting being at Joe’s side right now, letting Nile have her time. Joe is immensely, immeasurably grateful for this man. The cure to the aching loneliness he suffered is to be here, to offer his love to the people who love him. (Nicky knows this, knows  _ him _ , so very well, and won’t interrupt this, gives his own love in the form of putting Joe first and Joe  _ loves  _ him so fucking much.)

Nicky picks up the abandoned book and opens it to the marked page as Nile still shakes a little in Joe’s arms. He begins to read where Booker left off, the lilt of his accent weaving in and out of the French vowels. He’s a few pages in when Andy and Quynh come out to join them. Andy stretches out across the last available lounger — the last time they were here it was only four of them, they only needed four then and apparently only need four now — and Quynh settles between her legs, her back against Andy’s front. Andy wraps her arms around Quynh and rests her cheek on her head as she turns to watch Nicky reading.

Eventually, Nile emerges from Joe’s hold, her face tear stained but calm. Joe kisses her forehead again and she smiles. With a gusty sigh she settles back against Booker. Near seamlessly, Nicky passes the text off to Booker who picks up the next sentence without even a pause. Nile burrows closer to Booker, making room for herself on the lounger again. Booker only lifts an arm for her to duck under, never breaking his flow. Nicky stands and is at Joe’s side too quickly for them to pretend it was even close to casual. Joe tugs him down and they settle in with their legs tangled and Nicky’s hand resting on his skin, right over his heart.

* * *

When Nicky wakes again it is much darker, storm clouds rolling across the sky. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep. Joe stirs at his first breath, waking with him. Nicky’s hand is still stuck up under his shirt, though it’s drifted down to his stomach. He’s half hard and Joe’s leg is still slotted between his. It’s barely a thing to shift down against it ever so slightly. Joe lifts his leg into it at the same time. Nicky lets out a slow breath, his fingers curling against Joe’s skin.

They meet each other’s eyes then finally look around. The others have gone inside and only Andy is sitting up with them. She’s cleaning a pistol methodically. Her eyes flicker up to them, a smirk playing around her lips. She certainly noticed their movements and she’s certainly recognized them. Nicky isn't so much embarrassed as he is somewhat sorry they’ve been caught, but then again she’s seen and heard much worse from them over the many centuries of close-quarters cohabitation. (And for that matter they’ve seen and heard much,  _ much  _ worse from her and Quynh, whose shamelessness had teetered into exhibitionism when the mood was right.)

“Didn't think you’d want to wake up alone out here,” she says. Nicky nods his thanks, she’s right. She stands and leaves the pistol within reach on the lounger Booker and Nile have long since vacated. “Come inside soon, it’s going to rain.”

“Yes, mother,” Joe mutters sarcastically. His voice is sleep-rough and Nicky shifts down again. Andy snorts and flips them off as she walks back up to the house.

Joe turns his head to Nicky when she’s gone inside and smiles lazily. He presses up against Nicky’s cock and Nicky lets him see the shudder that runs through him. He leans in and kisses Joe.

It’s easy to slip his hand down and push into Joe’s pants. He’s half hard, too. It never takes much to get him there as long as Nicky makes his own pleasure obvious. Joe makes an approving noise into Nicky’s mouth but Nicky only cups him for a while. Their kisses are slow and sweet. The goal is still only being together, being near. Nothing rushes them on.

Joe’s hand curls more around his thigh and hitches him a little closer. Nicky grinds down again and takes Joe’s cock in hand properly. Their kisses deepen, though they’re still languid. They should get up, like Andy said, and go inside. Nicky can smell the rain and the wind has picked up threateningly. But he can’t pull himself from this moment. Joe seems to agree as he lifts his hips slightly into Nicky’s grip.

The first rain drops fall fat and cold on Nicky’s head, sliding through his hair and down the back of his neck, making him shiver. He pulls back to say they should head in, but Joe’s mouth latches to the corner of his jaw and his hands fumble with the fastenings of his own pants. Nicky doesn’t move his own hand, though it’s certainly hindering Joe’s efforts. Joe contents himself with biting and sucking an impermanent mark on Nicky’s jaw that has him grinding down harder. The rain comes a little faster.

Joe finally gets his pants open and Nicky takes the next logical step of drawing him out. He’s mesmerized by the sight, though he’s seen it hundreds of thousands of times before. Their shirts are already sticking to their skin with the rain and something about the clinging fabric rumpled on Joe’s stomach and Nicky’s hand tight around his cock is doing it for him. He keeps watching as Joe mouths at his neck. The first full stroke has him moaning.

The sky breaks open. It’s a proper downpour, chilly rain coming down in sheets around them. Nicky blinks water from his eyes and takes up a rhythm. It’s wet from the rain, slick where it mixes with Joe’s precum, and his hand nearly glides over the skin. He’s clumsy and uncoordinated with his left hand, but Joe’s head falls back against the recliner as he loses himself in the sensation. He spreads his legs unconsciously, pushing his thigh up between Nicky’s again. Nicky grinds down and hums and tightens his grip ever so slightly on Joe.

It doesn’t take long, Nicky never intended it to, not like this. He’s been eager, since they got here, to bring Joe over the edge as quickly as he can like he’s proving something. He has no idea what, but he just doesn’t want to draw it out. Joe shakes and moans and Nicky bends out of his embrace long enough to catch his release on his tongue. Joe’s hand tangles in his hair and he draws him back up.

“God, Nicky,” he murmurs, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. Then they’re kissing more frantically and Nicky shamelessly takes his pleasure from the simple pressure of Joe’s thigh between his own.

Together they tuck Joe away and slowly detangle. Nicky stands and stretches and Joe’s hands curl around his waist. He slides his mouth along the exposed skin where his shirt rides up. Nicky pets a hand through his curls, then pushes him back.

“Come on,” he says, “I may like storms but I’m not doing this in the rain. I’ve had quite enough of getting sand and mud everywhere.” He means it as a joke but suddenly all he can think of is endless desert out the windshield of a car and the feeling of grit under his fingers when he touched Joe. Joe feels him freeze and stands smoothly, cupping his face in his hands.

“It’s okay,” he says, thumbs stroking over Nicky’s cheeks. “It’s over, it’s past. Let’s go inside and warm up.” Nicky nods, he hadn’t realized he was shivering. He pushes a hand back under Joe’s shirt to touch his skin and Joe snags the gun and they head back up to the house.

* * *

Joe knows it will take a long time for Nicky to work through this, to compartmentalize every feeling and analyze it from every angle before he finally puts it to bed. There are layers and depths to Nicky that neither of them plunge too often, but when they’re so disturbed like this, pulling him back to shore is a process. He knows this and still it pains him to see Nicky drowning.

Nicky is an exposed nerve right now, a slow-healing, gaping wound that refuses to close. It’s rare enough that even Joe is unfamiliar with this, unfamiliar with this Nicky who  _ takes _ , who finds whatever comfort he can and takes it even while he wrestles against the instinct. But comfort is the one thing Joe has in abundance. If it’s the warmth of his skin, the methodical practice of maintaining their swords, or putting words out into the world, whatever comfort Nicky needs, Joe offers up.

He’s given two, so now he asks for the third.

Joe is gentle as he guides Nicky to their room, finds them something dry to wear, and helps him out of the clinging, wet clothes. Nicky is quiet like he knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t look on the verge of running this time. Joe slides into their bed and draws Nicky down, caging him close to his chest like they’re going to sleep.

“Tell me, Nicolò,” he says. Nicky swallows a few times and grips both of Joe’s arms. Joe gives him all the time in the world even if he is nearly crawling out of his skin from the not knowing. Nicky doesn’t hold it back maliciously, he reminds himself, but he was the one who was left standing and Joe isn’t sure what he would look like if he were in Nicky’s place. The rain whips against their window.

After a while, Nicky tells him. Tells him about seeing his body on the floor of that room. Tells him how none of their family let him look back, kept him moving until he finally got into their bed and everything stopped. Tells him about the seeds of doubt, about  _ Andy _ planting them, however unintentionally, because it was coming from a place of fear. Tells him about their clash, about the words he regrets so deeply that, despite Andy’s forgiveness, will haunt him for decades. Tells him about the bloody mess he left at the compound, cold and remorseless, because these men were no more than an obstacle to overcome. Tells him about Quynh, supporting and rationalizing and at his side for every single step, keeping him in place even when all he wanted was to run toward Joe with nothing but his certainty and persistence. Tells him about the heavy ache in his bones and the empty feeling in his chest and the way the Earth seemed to turn so much more slowly when he had nothing stretching ahead of him except aloneness. Joe kisses the back of his neck, sympathy and protectiveness making him want to keep Nicky here in his arms forever. He can’t imagine,  _ can’t imagine _ , having to go through that and Nile’s question rings in his head and what if,  _ what if _ , one day he has to— Nicky stiffens.

He elbows Joe in the side suddenly, pushes him away enough to sit up and stare down at him.

“I left you,” he says and there it is, that fight Nicky wanted, the one he tried to bury, the one Joe  _ helped  _ him bury. They both should have known it wouldn’t stay there. The distance between them, no more than a few inches, yawns like a cavern.

“You had to,” Joe says.

“No one came in the night. I could’ve stayed,” Nicky insists.

“You didn’t know that then,” Joe replies. He can see it, can see how Nicky wants to rage and scream and tear their world apart like he can find the ugly, festering root of this  _ wrongness  _ and rip it up. But of course it won’t solve anything, it won’t do anything other than upset him more because Joe is not who he’s angry with. Joe reaches across the gap between them, but Nicky knocks his hands away. He pretends it doesn’t hurt, like every other time Nicky rejects him in anger.

“I should have dragged your body, forced them to take it with us in whatever state, however we could,” Nicky says. Joe doesn’t reply this time, just watches and listens and lets him rage. “I  _ left  _ you! Don’t you have anything to say about that? Aren’t you angry with me? I left you like you were no better than those men we put down and I assumed we would never be going back. You would’ve been buried in some shallow grave to be unearthed and picked at by vultures, or you would’ve been burned to nothing in a massive pyre with every other expendable body in that place. I left you! Yusuf!  _ Say something! _ ”

A wretched ache rushes up from the fathomless deep of his soul. Joe is not who Nicky is angry with, but it is so much worse to see him rage at himself. They’ve been here countless times and they’ll be here countless more and it never hurts any less. He bridges their chasm again and this time Nicky lets him make contact. Joe cups his face in his hands and rests their foreheads together, swallowing past the tightness of his throat.

“Say what, Nicolò?” he says. “Say that I blame you? That I love you any less because you went with our family instead of risking your own life to stand vigil over a corpse? That I cannot forgive you? When you have already been through so much, when you came back for me as soon as you knew. You want me to be angry? Betrayed, maybe?” He shifts to look Nicky in the eye.

“You could no more ask that I love you less than you could ask the sea to cease following the moon. You could no more expect me to be angry or betrayed than you could expect the sun to give up its warmth. You could no more tell me to blame you than you could tell every star in the sky to wink out.

“I love you still, as much as I always have. I will never blame you for this.”

There is barely a pause, then Nicky falls into him, his mouth open and gasping. Joe doesn’t hesitate, capturing Nicky’s breaths on his own tongue. Their tears mingle, transferring across their skin as they kiss. It’s a silly tradition to have, the words Nicky is too busy to say, caught and captive as he is to Joe’s ragged sighs, so he digs his fingers under Joe’s ribs and Joe knows exactly what he’s trying to convey. He can’t help his laugh. They are in their own little world again. Nicky pushes Joe’s shirt off to have that unblemished skin bared to him once more. They have spent more than an age, more than a lifetime, mapping the valleys and plains of each other’s bodies, but Nicky traverses them again as if he’s checking to see that nothing has changed.

When the world outside has begun to go properly dark, Nicky rests again against Joe’s body. Joe strokes up and down his spine with a steady hand, his rhythm as constant as the click of a metronome. They linger in their quiet little corner of the universe. Joe breathes in time with his motions, slow and calmative. His heartbeat mingles with Nicky’s quiet breaths and all the music in history could never compare to this.

The mess they’ve each pushed through has quieted. It’s not gone forever, and they both know they’ll do battle with it all again, but it will be less and less strong every time. Joe presses his nose into Nicky’s hair because he can  _ hear  _ him thinking about it and lets out an offended huff that has Nicky laughing. It is such a relief to hear the sound again, and Joe stores the memory alongside every other hundreds of thousands of times he’s made Nicky laugh.

“I would have thought,” Joe says, and he most certainly is not pouting however Nicky will one day recall this story, “that after a tumble like that you’d have been incoherent a little longer.”

“It was very good,” Nicky says and he lifts his face to look at Joe as he finishes, “but nothing to write home about.” Joe pushes him off his chest and tackles him into the sheets.

“Nothing to write home about,” he echoes, scoffing. “I compose poetry for you, I worship every inch of your body, I bring you to a climax not once, but twice, and you say it is only  _ very good _ .” Nicky grins, unrepentant, and shrugs.

“Perhaps you can try again,” he says, all casualness and flippant calm. Joe growls playfully and leans down to bite at Nicky’s smile.

“I notice you did not say later,” Joe says. Nicky catches Joe’s lower lip between his teeth and pulls.

“Would you like to try for three?” Nicky says seriously. And Joe very pointedly licks into his mouth in answer.

Night has fallen when they venture out again. They find the others in the coziest sitting room, a fire roaring in the grate already. Andy and Quynh are sharing a blanket, a chair, and a book. Booker and Nile are seated right in front of the fireplace, a chessboard between them. They are arguing about some archaic rule to the game with Andy egging Booker on and Quynh backing up Nile. Nicky’s got the barest hint of a smile on his face as he settles onto the empty loveseat and Joe follows him down, plastering his back to Nicky’s front. He tips his head onto Nicky’s shoulder and looks over when Nile threatens to throw one of Booker’s pieces into the fire.

Booker descends into swearing French as Nile triumphantly pulls up the rule she claimed was correct. It doesn’t help her very much since Booker has always been the trickiest strategist among them and Nile is too impatient to plan far enough ahead to beat him, but she coasts on the victory for a few turns. Nicky drags a blanket down from the back of the couch and together he and Joe tuck it around themselves. Protected, warm in that way that’s going to get uncomfortable in a few minutes, Nicky gathers Joe’s shirt up and away from his skin to splay his hands across his chest and sternum.

“There better not be anything nasty happening under that blanket” Nile says, turning and pointing at them, “I have had that since I was a kid.” Across from her Booker palms one of her chess pieces which she might’ve used to put him in check in another two moves. Andy and Quynh duck behind their book much too conspicuously. It’s not even open. Nile snaps her head back around to the board and she and Booker devolve into another argument. Joe laughs quietly. Just to rile her up, he turns to kiss Nicky’s neck. Nicky stretches, giving him some more room, and Nile looks like she can’t decide who to yell at more.

Eventually the chess game is abandoned with no winner, both Nile and Booker muttering under their breath about cheaters and rule-breakers. Quynh burrows further into Andy’s side and Andy cracks open her book. It’s a veterinary manual about horses which none of them find quite as amusing as she does when she starts to read aloud. Nile puts her foot down when Andy turns the book to show them the pictures and frankly disturbing diagrams like they’re children. Andy cackles and Nile marches over to pick up the copy of Verne they were reading in the garden. She shoves it into Booker’s hands (he clearly still isn’t forgiven) and plops down with her back to the fire.

Booker sits up against the loveseat and Joe sneaks a hand out from under their blanket to tuck into the back of his shirt. Nicky makes a disgusted noise as Andy stretches out a leg and props her foot against his shoulder, but he doesn’t lift his hands from Joe’s skin to push it off. Quynh shifts around enough to play with Nile’s braids when Nile leans to the side to prop her shoulder against the side of Andy and Quynh’s chair. Booker stretches his legs out in front of him and Nile tangles hers with his. The fire crackles and the rain blows gustily up against the side of the house. Booker picks up the story and Joe closes his eyes. Nicky brushes a kiss against his temple and Joe can feel the press of his smile like a brand on his heart.


End file.
